The Legend of St. Loy With Other Poems. By John Abraham Heraud |
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The Legend of St. Loy | ||
XXI.
Meanwhile, that Son of Violence,And Arts forbid to Innocence,
Dread, secret, dark—which but to name
Would shake this universal frame,
Pluck down the star-attended moon,
And cloud the sun, in lofty noon:
The pillared arch of Heaven torn;
And Earth, with all her mountains, borne
From her firm base of Order, spoken,
When first Confusion's rule was broken:—
Arts, whose wild orgies Nature wound,
Leagued with the storms that rage around:
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That bandit-Chief had not forborne
Over that victim of his power.
That winter-touch'd, cold-faded flower:
The daughter of distress supreme,
And o'erwrought agony extreme.
Yet, happy she, her wretchedness
Had wrought to such extreme excess,
Her spirit sunk, collapsed and chill;
From too much feeling could not feel!
Nor her ear hear the taunts he made,
As thus the pride of Evil said:—
The Legend of St. Loy | ||